


Victory March

by naivesilver



Series: for home a song that echoes on - chaotix idw fics [2]
Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (IDW Comics)
Genre: AND vector and espio didn't get a smooch after the whole shebang, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Guilt, Internal Conflict, Introspection, M/M, Post-Zombot Arc (IDW Comics), Reunions, Spoilers up until Issue 29, solving that pesky issue where the chaotix didn't get an hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28833915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naivesilver/pseuds/naivesilver
Summary: The first reunion iss noisy, and chaotic, and Espio wouldn't have it any other way, because suddenly it’s easier to breathe again, to flop down on the grass of Angel Island and feel the tension melt from his shoulders.The second one, though, is a completely different matter.It's done. It's over. The Metal Virus is gone from the face of Earth. It should be cause enough for celebration, even without Sonic around to join in the fun.Too bad Espio can't seem to enjoy any of it.
Relationships: Espio the Chameleon/Vector the Crocodile
Series: for home a song that echoes on - chaotix idw fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2114133
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	Victory March

It's the second reunion that counts, surely.

The first is a public affair, the last rush of adrenaline when the battle is all but over. Espio leaps up to avoid a zombot lumbering towards him, infection fading in tiny specs of grey, and when he lands he's already sprinting forward, elbowing his way towards the people he's looking for.

The first time is for Charmy to crash against him, loud and bothersome and so vibrantly _alive_ , and for Vector to catch them both in his arms with ease, crushing them so hard Espio fancies he can hear the bones in his back creak threateningly. It's meant to be cut short from the offset, because there are people milling about, frightened and tired and looking for someone to tell them what to do, and Sonic's gone, besides, the only stain in an otherwise picture-perfect triumph against Eggman. It's noisy, and chaotic, and Espio wouldn't have it any other way, because suddenly it’s easier to breathe again, to flop down on the grass of Angel Island and feel the tension melt from his shoulders.

The second one, though, is a completely different matter.

It's not easy to carve out a moment for themselves - a sudden influx of former zombots means having to find food and shelter for hundreds of people at once, which in the end boils down to being crammed in those precious few buildings that are still standing until they can go home. But the small alcove he and Vector find is thankfully empty, if not very well lit, and that is more than enough after weeks of separation.

"I missed you" Vector breaths out at some point, and Espio shushes him right after, drawing him down for another kiss.

He's missed Vector just as much, he wagers, if not more, but he doesn't want to think about it. They have precious little time as it is. Soon enough they’ll have to go check on Charmy, who's sleeping in a pile of other children to ward off the chill left behind by the virus, because Espio can’t bear to let the kid out of his sight for too long, and there’s work for them to do, besides. There always is for the likes of them – there’ll be no victory march for the Chaotix, only food to hand out and houses to restore. They might be friends and allies to heroes, but that doesn’t mean they can claim that name for themselves.

But that’s fine. Espio never meant for them to be heroes. He never meant for Charmy and Vector to be martyrs to the cause. All he ever wanted was what he has now, the chance to splay his hands on Vector’s chest, feel Vector’s laughter rumble under his fingers – the knowledge that Charmy will be able to find them if he stumbles out of bed in the middle of the night, even drowsy and bleary-eyed and lost in unfamiliar rooms as he might be.

He wanted them alive. He wanted them _safe_. The war and the virus might have tweaked the chance of it happening, but now he thinks he could relish in the feeling for hours, drink it in until he drowns.

Vector's hands slide down from where they were clinging to Espio’s shoulders, and his fingers scrape against a few scratches along his back, rough enough to hurt. Zazz’s little gift to him, and still fresh – his claws dug deep, and their fight was not so long ago that the cuts might have already begun to scab. Espio hisses in discomfort, but he regrets it instantly, because in a moment Vector has already pulled his hand away, worry etched on his face. "What happened? "

"It’s nothing." Espio takes his hand and places it against his skin once more, a silent invitation at picking up from where they left off. He can feel the thread of his thoughts begin to unravel already, and he can't - he won't have it, right now. He won't let himself start _thinking_ , of all things. He's done his share of thinking in the past weeks, of long days and sleepless nights and grinding his teeth to resist the urge to scream, and this is not the place for it. He knows he can’t ask for much, but if all he can get from this night is a chance to let his mind go numb and blank, to forget himself long enough for it to stop hurting, then so be it.

“You sure?”

"Yes. Zazz tried to play his little games on me. He failed."

Vector still seems skeptical, but Espio brushes it off, ill at ease with the attention. It’s not him who should be fussed over like a sick child – if anything, he ought to come last, under a long list of people who have more need of it than him. After all, he was for a long time one of the precious few that still drew breath instead of mindlessly lumbering around.

He should count himself lucky, to not have fallen victim to the virus, and luckier still to have found his family so soon. There are countless people that didn’t respond to Zavok’s call to arms, likely because they had no chance to, stuck in ditches or lost at sea during their mindless moving through a maze of empty towns. That both Vector and Charmy were there, that he hasn’t lost either of them is nothing short of a blessing. He should be thankful – no, he is, he is thankful, he has a chance so many of those sheltering in place around him would give their right arm for. He can’t wave it away as though it were nothing.

Even if he feels like he barely deserves it.

He busies himself with tracing idle patterns on the crocodile's skin, instead, trying to find new scars of his own. The old ones Espio can list easily enough, chant them under his breath even as he marvels at having the chance to lay hands on them again. He's full of misplaced pride about a great many things, but it would be no exaggeration to say he knows Vector's body better than anyone else, better than he knows his own, like a map to a foreign land he's been the first to set foot on. And Espio was there for most of those scars besides, could rattle off time and place and client if he so wished, so he might be forgiven for feeling a little bit possessive on that front.

Which is why he falters, unsettled, when he finds nothing but rough, scaled skin where any new injury ought to be.

It makes no sense. Vector is sturdy, yes, but he’s hardly indestructible. And Eggman likely didn’t think to make sure that his newly acquired minions would make it all in one piece to the apex of his world domination plan. He had thousands of them to do his bidding; surely losing a couple dozens on the way would have mattered little to him. And Zavok was much the same. So why…

And then, just like that, it clicks into place.

_Oh._

_Oh, of course._

“Espio? You okay?”

He doesn’t realize his hands are shaking until Vector takes one of them in his own, pressing his thumb on Espio’s palm. There’s comfort in that gesture, and a silent question, too, but it’s not one Espio can answer right now. His mouth feels dry as sandpaper, and the words get stuck halfway up his throat, unwilling to go any further.

It’s not that he’d forgotten. It would be quite hard to forget that a mere few days ago, they were still on the run, trying to cobble together some solution to their problems. It stands to reason that the zombots might have been just as invulnerable as they were strong – no attack thrown at them ever did anything beside scattering them around, nevermind denting the metallic fluid that coated them. He’s always known, deep down, that Vector and Charmy might return to him in the same state as when they were taken, with no scratches or bruises to show for their trouble.

But _knowing_ is not the same as _accepting_ , and there are a great many things Espio has yet to accept, even after having had to fight the people he cares most about on that field on Angel Island. Vector is brash and loud and too hotheaded for his own good, but Espio hasn’t been afraid of him once in all the years they’ve known each other. The cold, raging monster that tried to infect him doesn’t fit anywhere in that picture, but somehow the other option is worse, knowing that Vector was still there underneath all that, blind and deaf and untouched by what was happening around him.

Were he on a clearer mind, he’d be able to think on a bigger scale, to be thankful, even, that none of the people still recovering had to deal with that particular side-effect as well. It would be harder for the Restoration to take care of so many if there were more injuries to tend to, if the virus hadn’t protected them from sunburn during those forced marches under the scorching sun, from the pain and the cold and the hunger.

As it is, though, all that Espio can think of is that he’d have gone to check on Charmy if he were alone, to see if the little bee’s knees are skinned as they were the last time they saw each other. He did that to himself the day before their town was taken over, tripping over his own feet during a particularly rowdy game, and Espio cleaned the scratches even as Charmy squirmed and complained – Vector might like to roughhouse more, but Espio is the one who deals with the aftermath, who scold and scolds and then kisses the boos better anyway, because you have to look after your own even when they’re a pain in the ass.

It’s been weeks. They ought to have healed by now, or they would have, had it been a normal couple of months, but he can’t be certain, because he doesn’t remember. He’d been too overjoyed, at first, to check, but now he wishes he had, because then he’d know if the band-aids are still there, or if the wounds have yet to scab. If time passed at all, for Charmy, in that cold shell. If.

“Espio? You still there?” His ears are still ringing loud enough that Vector’s voice barely reaches him, as though it were coming from a great distance. “You’re freaking me out, Es, what’s wrong?”

“Sorry” Espio whispers, but any other word he swallows down, jaw clenched. There’s something stuck in his throat now, stinging like a clump of barbed wire, and he fears that if he opens his mouth again it’ll all spill out and he won’t be able to stop it.

It’s not just the grief that gnaws at him. It would be easier, if it was: everyone is grieving around him, for someone or something they lost. But there is more to it, as always – the guilt, for one, surging forward like a tidal wave to remind him he should have done more, fought more, given more to the war than he already has.

And the anger, too. The anger is always there, simmering under the surface, like a pot on the verge of overflowing.

He knows he has no right of it. Of all the things he’s allowed himself as of late, anger should take the last place. There is too much to do to waste time and energies cursing anyone but Eggman and his acolytes, and even that is being ignored in favor of trying to rebuild their world from scratch. And still Espio has been feeling on edge for days, his skin crawling and his hands itching for something to ruin.

The main problem is, there aren’t many people he could foist the blame onto. Charmy would be the easiest choice – he was the first to leave, and arguably the cause behind much of their trouble since the infection started.

But Charmy is six. He’s a child. They should have been there to protect him, for all that he did the stupidest, most reckless thing he could think of. That’s what you do when you’re caring for a kid – you feed them, you love them, you keep them safe. You don’t send them off fighting a battle they can’t win when they’re still young enough to want bedtime stories at night.

Vector, on the other hand, was fully aware of the consequences of his actions. It doesn’t make what he did any less necessary, or any less brave – they’re not heroes, but they’ve been doing the job for years, dirty that it might be – but neither does it make the whole debacle hurt less. It was different, before; the longing dampened the rage somehow, made it into something necessary, something that kept him moving even when there didn’t seem to be any hope left. Now all that remains is the dull ache that thrums behind Espio’s eyes, one that he’s been trying to ignore ever since the doors of the bunker closed on Vector’s face.

It’s not fair. If anything, it’s Vector who should be upset, because Espio got to keep his wits all along, and he never should have been expected to step up to the plate like that. And there was never any promise, besides - not one spoken aloud, at least, because it’s foolish to say such things when going off to fight. They shouldn’t have grown used to world-saving battles by now, but they have, and they both know fully well that all bets are off once Eggman has set his latest masterplan in motion.

It’s not fair, but very little of what’s happened to them recently has been fair, and the injustice of it won’t let Espio be, wrapped around his brain like a knot of iron rod. They were meant to have time to get back on their feet, after the war. They were meant to have each other’s back, with all else failing. And still, Vector left him alone.

It chews at Espio’s reason, the anger and the guilt and the way they blend together, to the point where he doesn’t trust anything that comes to his mind. He doesn’t know which of his thoughts feel right, and which ones he can’t justify instead, the ugly ones, the ones that sound so much like the person he was once, selfish and angry and…

The hands that reach to cup his face are a surprise, and Espio almost recoils back, stunned. But they’re not at war anymore, so he stills, looking up slowly.

“Hey.” There is a softness to Vector’s face that wasn’t there before, but Chaos, he looks exhausted. They both do, they’re tired to the bones, and still they’re standing there in the half light as though it were a normal day, a normal brand of exhaustion. Vector’s hands are so big people always wonder how he manages not to crush anything he touches, and yet they cradle Espio with careful familiarity, as though he were something infinitely precious.

That shocks Espio more than anything – not because he hasn’t been handled with such care in a long time, although that’s also a factor, but because only moments ago he’d have thought he would never get anywhere close to this again. He’s spent too long in his own head not to picture himself as his thoughts would have him be, an ungrateful little gnat, spitting bile and scuttling away from the light.

“Hey” Vector repeats, voice pitched low. “It’s okay. Look at me. I’m right here. I’m alive. The kid’s alive. We can go see him in a moment, if you wanna. I know it’s been a wild ride, but- we’re okay. We’re gonna be okay, I swear.”

Espio would like to scoff at those words, to deny that that kind of thought ever crossed his mind, but he knows it’d be a fruitless pursuit. Vector has always been too good at reading him like an open book, tearing off the worst pages before they could hurt them both.

And- and it’s easier, too, for his resolve to shatter when he’s not alone. He can feel himself come undone under Vector’s touch already, raw and fragile like exposed skin, and he should fight it, he should, he doesn’t deserve it after the nights he spent staring sightlessly at the ceiling and feeling so angry he thought he might burst – but it’s hard to keep a solid grasp on anything that’s not what he has right before his eyes, right now.

So he holds tight onto Vector’s arms, digging his nails deep enough in it would hurt if it were anyone else, and leans his forehead against Vector’s, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Alright” he repeats, softly, as if he could speak it into existence. “Alright.”

It can’t be that easy. Even somebody more optimistic than he is, somebody like Vector, even, would agree that such things can’t be waved away just like that, especially not after he’s spent so long ruminating on them. But if they can take one night to pick up the pieces and begin to puzzle them together, that might be a start.

And who knows. Perhaps it’ll look better in the morning, when the whole mess is just that little further behind their shoulders.

**Author's Note:**

> So if you are one of those poor souls who follows me on Tumblr you might have been asking yourself for a while "hey, but where is that Espio POV naivesilver kept talking about?".  
> The thing is, I started writing this fic right after the Zombot arc formally concluded. It was great for all of two weeks, and then...I don't know, it went down like a lead balloon. My mental health took some massive hits around that time period, and I was never satisfied with what I was writing, and this fic took the brunt of it. There are no less than four versions of the same story in my WIPs folder, and my friend started calling it THE FanfictionTM, because it was centerfront in my mind every time I tried to sit down to write.  
> (They also helped me realize, very gently, that the way I was dealing with it was not healthy and that I needed to approach it from a different direction. I barely wrote anything Vecpio-related since I began, because I was feeling too guilty for having left this behind. I hope this can change, in the close future, but I'm not setting any hard deadlines because you can see how THAT went.)  
> I'm better now. And I've been formally forbidden by the aforementioned friend (who also became mildly obsessed with the Chaotix since this debacle started, so freenklin if you're out there, I appreciate you immensely) to say my works suck, so I'm just gonna add that perhaps it's not as good as it might have been. But it's finished, and considering the story behind it? I'm damn proud of myself for that. Whatever reaction it gets.  
> I have half a mind to write a Charmy fic to go full circle, but we'll see about that. I'm not nearly half as melodramatic as I was here when I write kids, so that might be a plus. Also as usual, since I'm a dumbass and English is not my first language, it'd be much appreciated if you told me in case you notice something wrong.  
> Thank you for sticking until the end of this rant. Stay safe, and bundle up when it's cold outside. Love you all.


End file.
